Laying waste the garden

I promise, I'll have a good book-related post soon. I'll write about the crazy book I read before the semester started, and about the semester itself. (I know you're going to find the organization of information just as fascinating as I do.)

And this is about a book. I have these three non-school books sitting next to my bed with accusing bookmarks pointing out of them: The Second Sex (which I was supposed to finish in January), Fiasco by Thomas E. Ricks (which has been there since September), and One Art, the letters of Elizabeth Bishop. But last night before I went to bed, I took something newly acquired off the shelf, and was rewarded with a timely passage. A couple of weeks ago, I was early meeting a friend in Central Square, and stopped into this used bookstore called Rodney's. There was this lovely copy of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, which I've never read, for $7.50, so I bought it. This prophet is about to leave a city where he's been living and go back to the land he came from, and the people in the city ask him to speak of different subjects before he goes. The first he talks about is love. You know, that day with the sugar and the hearts and stuff is tomorrow, and these words seem to me as appropriate a counter-remedy as any: to be grateful for love in its various forms, and not whine about the parts of it that hurt.

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
...
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love....
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.